


The Brooklyn Cathouse

by Rainne



Series: Thank-You Fics [9]
Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Cats, Light Angst, Lots of Cats, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, shrinkyclinks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-14
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-20 17:01:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4795265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainne/pseuds/Rainne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve just wanted to do some life drawing.  He wasn't expecting all this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Brooklyn Cathouse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crosseyedmary](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crosseyedmary/gifts).



> This fic is part of my Thank-You Fics, so called because they have been written as thank-you gifts to people who have donated to my mother's cancer fund, which is helping to pay for my mother's chemotherapy treatments and eventual surgeries.
> 
> If you would like to know more about my writing and my gift fics and how to get a Thank-You Fic of your own, please visit [this Tumblr post](http://rainnecassidy.tumblr.com/post/118466323344/please-help). Thanks.

There's a sign on the door that reads _Rule Violators Will Be Ejected and Banned._   It's not the kind of sign he expected to see on this particular door, but there you are.  Steve pushes the door open and steps inside, and finds himself confronted by a large, cheerfully line-drawn sign painted onto the wall.  At the top, it reads _House Rules._

The first picture is of a small child reaching out for a cat.  Underneath the image are the words _No children under 12 permitted without an adult. Please supervise your children carefully. No children under 5 permitted at all._

Well, he thinks, that's one way to keep the place quiet.  He looks at the next picture, which is of a hand offering a spoon to a cat, which has turned its face away.  _Do not feed human food or drinks to cats!_   And Steve thinks, of course not. Too bad some people have to be reminded.

The third image is of a sleeping cat with lines of Zs over its head.  _Do not wake sleeping cats!_   Steve grimaces.  With his luck, all the cats will be asleep.

The fourth and fifth images are of human hands lifting an angry cat and pulling on a cat's tail.  _Do not pick up cats or pull their tails!_   The sixth image is of a camera with its flash going off in the direction of a cat, and the text beneath it reads _No flash photography!_   Steve nods. Sensitive eyes, of course.

The last image, which is right at the edge of the wall, is a picture of a cat with its paws over its ears.  _Keep the noise level down!_   Steve almost laughs.  No loud noises.  It must be like a kindergarten at naptime in there. 

He comes around the wall to a cash register where a skinny teenager sits with his nose in a thick textbook.  When Steve approaches, the kid looks up and gives him a smile. "Hey," he says. "Welcome to the Brooklyn Cathouse."

Steve shakes his head. "That's actually the name of this place?"

"Oh, yeah," the kid replies. He grins, nodding at Steve's backpack. "You must be studying.  All afternoon pass?"

"Artist, actually," Steve replies.  "Will anyone mind if I draw the cats?"

"Oh, no, people do that all the time."  The kid punches a couple buttons on his register.  "All afternoon lets you have all the time you want until close today, free Wi-Fi access and one drink of your choice off the coffee cart.  One re-entry, but no outside food or drink.  Fifteen bucks."

It seems a little steep to Steve, but it does include a coffee drink, and hell, those are five or six bucks at Starbucks, so what's he complaining about?  He swipes his credit card when the kid prompts him, signs the slip, and rounds the counter.  There's a glass door in this wall, and when he opens it, a streak of orange flies past his feet.

"Whoa, Carlton!" the kid exclaims, getting up and following the streak toward the street door.  An angry meow sounds, and the kid comes back a second later, carrying the cat carefully with one hand under its butt.  He grins at Steve. "And this is why we have this set up like an airlock."

Steve laughs softly, holding the door open for the kid, who drops the cat back inside. "Makes sense to me," he says.

The kid grins. "Enjoy your stay."  He moves back around the register and goes back to his textbook.  Steve goes into the cafe proper and looks around for someplace to sit.  He eventually settles on a bean bag in a corner with good sight lines; dropping his backpack on the bean bag to claim it for his own, he goes to the coffee cart to claim his beverage-included-in-the-cost.

The woman behind the coffee counter is slightly taller than he is, and shaped like a Vargas girl. His fingers immediately itch to draw her, even in her blue apron with her hair tied back.  Her eyes sparkle at him when she asks his name to write on the side of the cup, and he glances down at her name tag while she writes it down.  When she calls his name a couple of minutes later, he comes and gets his drink and says, "Thank you, Darcy," and her eyes sparkle even more. 

"You're very welcome," she tells him. "You need anything else, just give me a shout."  And her eyes blatantly look him up and down before settling back on his, her mouth quirking up into a gorgeously wicked grin.  Steve's not used to gorgeous women flirting with him, but he's also not totally oblivious, and he gives her his best shy smile before meandering back over to his own corner.

Everything's quiet for about half an hour; Steve gets some good warm-up sketches of a sleeping cat on a hammock not far from him and some cuddles from a friendly Persian, and then the door opens again and a huge hulking brute of a guy slips in, struts over, and lays a big wet smacker on Darcy's cheek.

Of course she's got a boyfriend. She wasn't flirting at all.  Steve sighs hard and goes back to his sketches, feeling a little disheartened.  He flips a page in his sketchbook and is just roughing out the shape of a Maine coon that's washing itself on a countertop nearby when he hears a man's voice say, "Steve? Steve Rogers?"

He jerks, startled, and turns so fast he thinks his head might go all the way around.  He looks up - and up - and up - at the barista's boyfriend. Up close, he's not quite such a hulking brute as he looked when he came in the room.  He's just dressed like one, in combat boots and jeans and a Nirvana t-shirt with a flannel button-up and a denim jacket over the top, like he just stepped out of the late '90s or something. His stubbled face is creased in a grin that's ridiculously familiar, and Steve feels himself gape.  "Bucky?"

"Yeah," Bucky says, and offers Steve a hand.  Steve takes it and lets Bucky pull him to his feet, dislodging the fat little tabby that had been perched behind his shoulders.  And he pulls Steve into a back-slapping hug.  "God, it's been forever. How've you been?"

"Good," Steve says, feeling unaccountably shy. It's _Bucky_ for godsakes - his boyfriend from eighth grade to freshman year of college, the guy he had his first kiss with, the guy he gave his virginity to.

The guy who went off to the Army and got blown up and refused to have anything to do with Steve after he came back four years ago.

Steve clears his throat and says, "How're you doing?"

"I'm good," Bucky says, and he goes a little soft, like he's suddenly remembering _why_ it's been forever.  "I, uh. Been going to therapy and stuff.  Getting my shit together."  He pulls a tall chair away from a high-top table nearby and perches on it, rubbing his right hand up and down the leg of his jeans.  The left one, Steve notices, stays in his jacket pocket.  "I meant to call you," he says softly.

Steve shrugs.  "I get it," he says. "You had a hard time when you came back.  I talked to your Ma, you know."

"I know."  Bucky takes a deep, heavy breath.  "She was, uh. Pretty sore at me for how I treated you.  I think she still is; every now and then she makes a comment about seeing you at the market or something."  He pauses, obviously casting around for something to say.  Steve sees it coming and braces himself.  "How's _your_ Ma?" Bucky asks.

"She's dead," Steve replies flatly.  "Two years ago.  The cancer finally finished the job."  _And you weren't there,_ goes unsaid.  _I needed you, but you'd left me._

Bucky's face crumples. "Oh, God," he whispers.  "Oh, God, Steve, I didn't know."

"I know you didn't," Steve replies, fighting to keep his tone even. "I'd have told you, but you'd stopped answering the phone or the door for me."

"I'm sorry," Bucky says. "God, does that sound as weak and useless to you as it does to me?  But I am.  I'm sorry.  I'm sorry about your Ma, I'm sorry I stopped talking to you.  I'm sorry about everything.  I wish I could go back and change it, change all of it."

Steve shakes his head.  It's really too late for apologies, and he doesn't want to be here any more.  He leans over and picks up his things, putting his pencils into their case and his sketchbook back in the pocket.  He shrugs it on.  He looks over at the barista, who's watching them with a troubled face, and then looks back at Bucky.  "Just tell me she gives you whatever it was I couldn't."

"It's not like that," Bucky replies. "It's not - it's different with her. You know."

"Not really, Buck," Steve replies, "seeing as how I've only ever been in one relationship in my entire life."

Bucky closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.  "When I came back from over there," he says softly, "I was broken."

"I know you were," Steve replies. "I didn't care."

"Could you, for once, shut up and let me say something without jumping in to tell me how you're gonna fight the fucking world for me?" Bucky snaps.  Steve blinks in surprise and takes a deep breath to tell him where to get off - but something stops him.  Instead, he nods.  Bucky takes a deep breath and continues.  "When I say I was broken, I don't mean I was depressed and sad.  I mean I was having flashbacks every hour or so and I almost killed Becca when she walked up behind me without warning.  I was _dangerous._ "  He takes a deep breath.  "I was afraid of hurting you. Physically hurting you.  And I knew you'd have stuck with me through anything, you'd have fought the whole fucking universe.  But you couldn't fight this."

Steve takes a long, slow breath and pulls out the other tall chair, dropping his bag on the floor and hopping up into it.  "But you're better now?" he asks softly.

Bucky nods.  "I, uh.  Had to be locked up for awhile.  But yeah.  I'm better now.  I'm taking medication and going to therapy. And I got this."  He pulls his left hand out of his jacket pocket and offers it to Steve; it's an advanced prosthetic that looks almost exactly like a regular hand except for being made of what looks and feels like metal scales.  "I got accepted into an experimental program for veterans through the Stark Foundation.  They let us wear Stark prosthetics for free as long as we agree to play lab monkey with them, so they can improve them and make the tech better.  I just got this one a couple of months ago; it's got a neural interface and stuff."

"Bucky, that's amazing," Steve breathes.

"Yeah. So, so, you know, things are better now."  Bucky takes a deep breath.  "I, uh.  I've been thinking about calling you up.  I'd just about made up my mind to do it, even though I was kind of scared that you'd just tell me to go fuck myself.  But..."  He trails off and swallows hard.  "I miss you, Steve."

"I miss you, too," Steve replies, but then he throws a significant look over Bucky's shoulder at the barista and adds, "But that don't much matter, does it?"

"Well, that's the thing," Bucky says, and that old familiar smile, so full of the devil, creeps back onto Bucky's face.  "Darce, she's poly.  And, uh.  I've maybe been telling her about you.  Showed her a couple pictures.  Stuff like that.  And, uh.  She might have said that if you didn't rip my head off the minute I showed my face, that, uh.  She might be... you know.  Open."

"Open," Steve repeats.  "To... me?"

Bucky nods.  "Like we did before, with Peggy, before she went back to England."

Steve takes a long, slow breath.  Senior year - the year they were with Peggy - was legitimately one of the best years of Steve's life.  "I dunno, Buck," he says, biting at his lower lip.  "It's been a long time.  Maybe I ain't the same Steve Rogers you remember."

"Well, I definitely ain't the same Bucky Barnes," Bucky replies.  "So maybe we can, I dunno, give it a shot?  See if who we are now likes each other as well as who we were then?"

"I know I wasn't invited to join the conversation," Darcy says, giving them both a soft smile from where she's crept up to the other side of the table, "but I'd be a hundred percent in favor."

Steve takes a deep breath.  "Well," he says.  "I guess there's nothing wrong with giving it a try."  And slowly, he starts to smile back.


End file.
